Status: In development!
A Goddamn Moskal
Someone should behold it.
“Who art thou, who liveth in heaven? Oh lord, please shine thine light upon me, and grant me wisdom and strength for my upcoming baptism. Carry me forward, and I shall make thine wishes true.” Artiom gave the old man his self-loathing grin and passed him a cigarette.
“You are one self-centered basterd, aren’t you?”
The man replied, and denied the offering.
Artiom continued;
“I prefer to see myself as someone who acts, and not merely passes his time dwelling on things.”
“Rhetorical question you dimwit.”
The old man harrumphed.
Artiom took the hint and passed his message;
“Your lady.”
He proclaimed as he handed the old man a photo of the target he had chosen a few days earlier.
The old man gasped as he witnessed this horrific scenery.
“You preach, and yet you commit such atrocities?”
“I prefer to see it as, filth becoming something beautiful; A larva hatching into a butterfly.”
The old man’s hands were shaking, and he caught himself being absorbed by this horrible sight. He then quickly handed Artiom his photo back.
“Now what kind of behavior is this? I hand you a gift and you refuse it? I don’t know about you, but I know better than to simply discard a gift of such magnitude.”
Artiom refused to accept the picture.
“There is special place in hell waiting for you, believe me… *hm*.”
"I know.”
“And if I get there before you, I’ll be sure to put in a good word for you.”
The old man exclaimed. He quickly hid the picture inside his coat. Artiom nodded in amusement. Truth was, Artiom had long been on good terms with his ultimate resting-place, if hell can be referred to as such.
“I suppose you are here for something else as well?”
The old man asked.
“Be he who asks me fairly, be one who art my kin. I am about to depart on a quest, whether I come out on top or fall short is hard to tell, preferably it won’t be the latter. It may sound rather strange to you, being thrown into the thick of it and all, but I see you as the embodiment of this society. You are tired, tired of how you are supposed to obey and bow before those who see themselves as greater beings. Filthy liars who condemn us all to a life of monotony, and forced labour. And I can, as can anyone, see ourselves get torn asunder as we do things we do not like and accept things we do not approve. You see, I am not a monster, I am not even on par with those who want me dead. I may be brute, but I assure you that everything I do, is merely art, if so a rather controversial one, it is still mere craftsmanship.”
Artiom paused.
“What are you saying?”
“Ah! Straight to the point! You see this country needs a wakeup call, something to stir the stew before it edges itself in the pot. I have a friend, well I say friend, he’s more of an asset. Part of this whole system and that office of his shall be host for my next event. And if everything goes as planned it will be my greatest work yet.”
“Unless my perception fails me, you’re going to...”
“Murder each and every one of them.”
Artiom quickly chipped in, finishing the old man’s sentence. The old man had to take it all it in before further questioning.
“What have I got do with all this?”
The old man wondered.
“I yearn for the day that my stage bustle with spectators awe. What good is art, if there is none to behold it?”
Artiom got up from the bench, its dried up wood creaking as he did so. He’d left a foul taste in the old man’s mouth, but as the thought further developed, the old man couldn’t do more than to simply abide with Artiom’s grotesque plans. Perhaps there was reason amongst all this madness. He held in his hand the photo he’d been given, and in a weird way he liked it. Seeing someone so smothered by corruption and greed hang from the gallows. He caught one last glimpse of Artiom before the massive thug disappeared into the crowds. He chuckled as he realized he’d been thrown into a mess he’d never understand by a man he didn't understand. Figuratively speaking he was part of a twisted comic, and he was too curious to simply abandon its menacing characters and backstory.
“You are one self-centered basterd, aren’t you?”
The man replied, and denied the offering.
Artiom continued;
“I prefer to see myself as someone who acts, and not merely passes his time dwelling on things.”
“Rhetorical question you dimwit.”
The old man harrumphed.
Artiom took the hint and passed his message;
“Your lady.”
He proclaimed as he handed the old man a photo of the target he had chosen a few days earlier.
The old man gasped as he witnessed this horrific scenery.
“You preach, and yet you commit such atrocities?”
“I prefer to see it as, filth becoming something beautiful; A larva hatching into a butterfly.”
The old man’s hands were shaking, and he caught himself being absorbed by this horrible sight. He then quickly handed Artiom his photo back.
“Now what kind of behavior is this? I hand you a gift and you refuse it? I don’t know about you, but I know better than to simply discard a gift of such magnitude.”
Artiom refused to accept the picture.
“There is special place in hell waiting for you, believe me… *hm*.”
"I know.”
“And if I get there before you, I’ll be sure to put in a good word for you.”
The old man exclaimed. He quickly hid the picture inside his coat. Artiom nodded in amusement. Truth was, Artiom had long been on good terms with his ultimate resting-place, if hell can be referred to as such.
“I suppose you are here for something else as well?”
The old man asked.
“Be he who asks me fairly, be one who art my kin. I am about to depart on a quest, whether I come out on top or fall short is hard to tell, preferably it won’t be the latter. It may sound rather strange to you, being thrown into the thick of it and all, but I see you as the embodiment of this society. You are tired, tired of how you are supposed to obey and bow before those who see themselves as greater beings. Filthy liars who condemn us all to a life of monotony, and forced labour. And I can, as can anyone, see ourselves get torn asunder as we do things we do not like and accept things we do not approve. You see, I am not a monster, I am not even on par with those who want me dead. I may be brute, but I assure you that everything I do, is merely art, if so a rather controversial one, it is still mere craftsmanship.”
Artiom paused.
“What are you saying?”
“Ah! Straight to the point! You see this country needs a wakeup call, something to stir the stew before it edges itself in the pot. I have a friend, well I say friend, he’s more of an asset. Part of this whole system and that office of his shall be host for my next event. And if everything goes as planned it will be my greatest work yet.”
“Unless my perception fails me, you’re going to...”
“Murder each and every one of them.”
Artiom quickly chipped in, finishing the old man’s sentence. The old man had to take it all it in before further questioning.
“What have I got do with all this?”
The old man wondered.
“I yearn for the day that my stage bustle with spectators awe. What good is art, if there is none to behold it?”
Artiom got up from the bench, its dried up wood creaking as he did so. He’d left a foul taste in the old man’s mouth, but as the thought further developed, the old man couldn’t do more than to simply abide with Artiom’s grotesque plans. Perhaps there was reason amongst all this madness. He held in his hand the photo he’d been given, and in a weird way he liked it. Seeing someone so smothered by corruption and greed hang from the gallows. He caught one last glimpse of Artiom before the massive thug disappeared into the crowds. He chuckled as he realized he’d been thrown into a mess he’d never understand by a man he didn't understand. Figuratively speaking he was part of a twisted comic, and he was too curious to simply abandon its menacing characters and backstory.